


we'll never change

by kagako



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Alcohol, Confessions, First Time, High School Memories, Light Angst, M/M, Set after episode 12, TENDER NINOJEANS ILL DIE, cuz they r in a BAR, except not rly, idk what else....., spoilers for everything basically read if u have finished the anime, they have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagako/pseuds/kagako
Summary: Freed from his duty, Nino feels like the world is off his shoulders—it’s a strange feeling, but a bit welcome. He wonders what he could do, everything he can do: take his bike and go, buy a ticket and leave, build a boat and sail.What he does is throw on clean, albeit wrinkly, clothes. He frowns at himself in the mirror, the deep set of his eyes and the age that he sees within his own gaze making him feel vulnerable, until he comes to the conclusion, aloud to no one but the layers of dust and cobwebs, “Don’t really need ‘em anymore, do I?”He leaves his glasses on the table and goes to Jean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO and welcome, these two have made me die for 82 years now so i thought i might as well write something. I'm not really too sure what to even say besides, please enjoy! After episode 12 and all the ones before that, I just really needed something tender to set my heart at ease.
> 
> (There's really not much spoilers, i lied in the tags. Well okay maybe very light vague spoilers but my main thing is this is set like during the ending of ep 12 but i guess it can still be read.....anyways!! Please enjoy!)

Freed from his duty, Nino feels like the world is off his shoulders—it’s a strange feeling, but a bit welcome. He wonders what he could do, everything he _can_ do: take his bike and go, buy a ticket and leave, build a boat and sail.

What he does is throw on clean, albeit wrinkly, clothes. He frowns at himself in the mirror, the deep set of his eyes and the age that he sees within his own gaze making him feel vulnerable, until he comes to the conclusion, aloud to no one but the layers of dust and cobwebs, “Don’t really need ‘em anymore, do I?”

He leaves his glasses on the table and goes to Jean.

It’s like some sort of gravitational pull, a tug beneath his sternum, which leads Nino to Jean. Nino leaves behind his bike, the whisper of cool air a welcome against his unusually flushed skin: he feels free, like a bird able to spread its wings, and he remembers Jean’s words of, _you don’t exist to serve the Dowa family_ ; and he supposes Jean was right, usually always is, but Nino can’t shake the feeling that that’s not exactly why he feels so free.

Outside the hustle of the bar, he can see the familiar sunflower-blonde of Jean’s hair through the wide window, and for a moment Nino feels self conscious. The air around him is clear, but there’s a tightening in his throat which restricts his breathing and—

Someone bumps into his shoulder, granting him oxygen once more.

“Excuse me!”

“—yeah, no problem.”

Nino inhales deeply, holds it as he counts to three before he exhales and wonders, _does he feel me watching him?_ He half-expects Jean to look over his shoulder, but the guy never does. So instead of watching and waiting, biding his time and shortening their time together, Nino pushes his way into the bar.

He’s almost to Jean’s side when he hears a clatter against the floorboard—and when he looks down, Jean’s lighter greets his eyes, a striking contrast of a bright yellow and red against a dark brown. For a moment, the classroom where he first saw Jean up close flashes through his mind: the warm breeze through the window, the flutter of the curtain, the sweat on his palm and the ungraceful way he bent to pick up Jean’s pencil.

Like then, Nino’s palms are sweaty and he lacks the right amount of grace as he bends to pick up the lighter. Unlike then, Jean’s bending down too, his fingers brushing against Nino’s knuckles, always a bit too slow; the smell of smoke and the scent that’s undeniably _Jean_ fills Nino’s nostrils, and Nino thinks that he wouldn’t mind staying in that moment forever.

But then he’s straightening his spine, the moment gone. He extends his hand, and Nino’s glad to see that the same surprised, dumbfounded expression from back then is the same as now. Nino watches as Jean’s expression changes: brows raised and eyes wide in surprise, to gentle eyes and a fought-back smile, to the smile winning over Jean’s struggle and the small huff of laughter that escapes. Jean tilts his head as he smiles, his eyes closed and Nino fights the urge to duck his head to look at the other’s expression.

Jean lifts his head, gaze-to-gaze with Nino; his shoulders are relaxed and his voice is a bit breathy as he says, “We really haven’t changed, have we?” Nino thinks, _so much has changed, I could write a novel,_ but the meaning isn’t really lost on him, no.

In a way, he agrees: they really haven’t changed.

(Jean will always be _his:_ the receiver of his affection and his best friend, a constant in his life. He will remain at the Inspection Department, no matter how many times he submits a transfer because Nino’s ex-supervisor will always tear it up and play the innocent party, but it won’t stop him from resubmitting a request. Jean will always smoke and always be a lightweight, and he will always enjoy toasted bread with strawberry jam.)

Nino hums, suppresses a shiver as Jean’s fingertips brush against his as the lighter is taken.

(Nino will always remain by Jean’s side, and although it’s mostly always been more out of infatuation than duty, something he could never admit aloud, this time there will be no orders. He will always take photographs, but perhaps now he will purchase a different camera and discard the one tied to Dowa and his old duty. Nino will always lean a little closer as Jean exhales smoke, because it’s a smell he’s come to enjoy although the habit is incredibly unhealthy; he will always enjoy drinking with Jean and watching as the other falls under the affects while Nino himself doesn’t, and he will always love the taste of a chocolate cake after dinner.)

It is then that Nino offers half a smile and says, “I guess not.”

Jean snorts, shifting in the barstool and patting the one next to him. “Join me,” he says, and so Nino sits.

The silence is comfortable, surprisingly, but also it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Nino knew what type of guy Jean was—he had known, in the back of his mind, that what was said in the hospital wouldn’t have changed anything between them; but a part of Nino couldn’t help but worry.

A beer is set in front of him. Gratefully, Nino nods his thanks and takes a drink.

“I knew my partner would come wandering in,” Jean says then, like it’s some sort of inside joke, and Nino figures it must be because he’s a bit confused, and Jean’s got laughter sparkling in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask.

“It’s nothing new,” Nino tells him, and thinks, _my partner,_ and wonders what Jean means.

“Ah,” Jean breathes. “Yeah, I guess not, huh?”

It’s Nino’s turn to snort, and it earns him an elbow in the side, but it only makes him laugh a bit harder.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but what he does know is that he’s barely seen Jean drink his beer at all; Nino wonders if that means Jean was already drunk by the time Nino walked through the door, or maybe Jean isn’t looking to get drunk and wobbly tonight—but maybe that last part was always Nino’s doing. Nino’s into his fourth beer, but he barely feels a buzz. His hands itch to pour Jean a drink, to lift a hand to call for another round—but there isn’t really a reason for that anymore, is there?

Nino’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he jerks in surprise when Jean shuffles closer, leaning so they are shoulder-to-shoulder.

Jean says nothing.

_Is he drunk?_

For a moment, Nino wonders if he should speak up, because surely Jean is definitely drunk, but when he walked in, there weren’t that many empty glasses in front of Jean; the usual stench of beer wasn’t strong enough to be deemed as drunk. Nino’s mind is reeling, his senses hyperaware because _, why else would Jean be leaning on me?_

He feels like an idiot.

_I do not exist for the royal family anymore. My duty is done; I’m free._

Nino swallows the lump in his throat and asks, “Are you drunk, Jean?”

Once again, Jean says nothing. He all but hums mystically, dropping his head to Nino’s shoulder. Jean can feel the way Nino stiffens, the stutter in his breathing. He says, “You don’t have to say anything.”

Nino’s a bit confused, but there’s a part of him that hates himself for the hope that bubbles in the pit of his stomach; after all, he slowly fell in love and it worsened in high school—and if it worsened in high school, he wonders how bad he has it now. The scars on his back seem to burn, as if in reminder.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Jean snorts, says, “You don’t need to tell me, because I already know, Nino.”

Nino can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips. If he turns, he could bend the slightest bit to bury his nose in Jean’s hair. “Do you now,” he murmurs, and it has Jean laughing too, so much that he has to lean away and sit upright.

Just like other seventy percent of things Nino doesn’t expect Jean to do, he doesn’t expect to feel Jean’s hand cover his own beneath the table. It’s a strange feeling, but a thrill is in his veins nonetheless; he squeezes Jean’s hand in return, perhaps to convey how thankful he is because he wasn’t sure if he would have been able to say something so embarrassing to Jean.

Jean squeezes back.

***

Half an hour later, Nino wonders how he got himself into this.

_(Jean coaxed him into it, and turned his head at the tell-tale signs of the beginnings of protest from Nino._

_“Lotta is visiting the King. Come over.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“Come over.”_

_“I don’t—“_

_Jean turned his head, munching around a handful of peanuts._

_“You’re doing that on purpose, so you can’t hear me, aren’t you?”_

_The corners of Jean’s lips twitched upward in response, but he says nothing.)_

They walk side by side, arms brushing occasionally. Nino follows Jean through the streets, past restaurants and they squeeze through crowds of people together until they’re making their way through the doors of the apartment complex and into the elevator. Nino wonders how it was that it went by so fast, and suddenly his senses are on fire because this will be the first time they’ve been alone together since—

“Come in, then.”

“Ah, right.”

When Nino shuts the door behind him, Jean turns to face him—Jean figures, this way, Nino couldn’t run.

“Jean?”

He takes a step forward, his hands uncertain and his mind even moreso. As Jean looks up at Nino, there’s a similar uncertainty there, and it doesn’t calm him at all. Jean has an itching in his hands that makes him want to settle them on Nino’s face, he wants to press their foreheads together and brush his lips against Nino’s—and Jean wonders what he’ll taste: if the beer will make him drunk or if he will taste chocolate cake that he’s sure Nino ate.

Instead, Jean lowers his gaze, shifting close enough so he is able to take both of Nino’s hands in his own. He hears the same stutter of breath, and fights a smile.

Jean isn’t sure where the thought came from, but he can’t help but ask it: “If… I had really become King, would you have served me?”

Nino’s hands twitch in Jean’s. He senses something deeper beneath the question, and he wonders if Jean would allow him to give no answer, but his mouth is opening before his body can stop it. “I would always serve you,” Nino says hesitantly, and it sounds like a question although the both of them knew it would never be one.

“No,” Jean’s saying then, and Nino tilts his head, a quick flash of fear making his blood run cold. “That’s… not really what I meant.”

Nino’s heartbeat settles as he asks, “What did you mean?”

“Would you have… stood beside me—“

“I will always be beside you,” he says carefully, purposefully.

“— _stand_ beside me, and not hidden yourself?”

Nino pauses before he caves in: “If you asked.”

Jean hums, wants to say, _so did you hear me asking you to show yourself, calling down alleyways and out windows after you told me you wouldn’t be caught again?_ but he doesn’t, so Jean is left neither satisfied nor unsatisfied. Mindlessly, he rubs his thumbs along the skin of Nino’s hand—figures, he can’t blame Nino, in a way; perhaps if their roles where reserved, Jean would have done the same; wonders what he would have done.

He isn’t sure why his mind is wandering into the part of his brain he deemed as forbidden, but the thought is there, plain as day, and he can’t help but itch to ask while knowing like this, Nino can’t run away. “Would you kiss me?”

“Back then? No.”

He’s dodging the question, they both know—but Jean can play along.

“If I had asked?”

Hesitantly, Nino says, “…yes,” as if he’s defeated.

“What about now?”

When Nino says nothing, Jean finally looks up; there’s a faint flush on Nino’s face, and Jean wonders if his own face mirrors it—suddenly, he’s glad the entranceway is relatively dark. The sound of the clock ticking is deafening, and as it goes irregularly against the beat of his heart, it almost hurts.

“Would it help if you knew?”

Nino hums.

“The first time I skipped class with you, back in high school, and you fell asleep on the rooftop?” Jean begins, and he almost regrets it. There’s embarrassment thick in his throat as he conveys this to Nino. “I took off your glasses. I thought you were really handsome, with or without them.”

Again, Nino hums.

“I was messing with your hair, because you had powdered sugar from your cookies there. I really wanted to kiss you, then.”

“Ah.”

“I did kiss you, actually.”

_“What—“_

“On the cheek,” Jean says with a snort.

“You—“

“So?” Jean interrupts. He squeezes Nino’s hands, as if to relay his message of: _it’s okay._ “There’d be nothing to feel guilty about.”

Nino huffs. “That isn’t the problem.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

Nino hesitates, furrows his brows. He wonders if it’s too late to back down: but then he’s been waiting for this, at least subconsciously. He’s lost count on the occasions in which he wanted to kiss Jean, ranging from high school up until now; he’s lost count on the times he wanted to take Jean’s hands in his own and tell him everything—who Jean is, who Nino himself is, what he’s done and what he’s kept secret, and that it’s okay, if Jean ends up hating him.

Instead, Nino pushes it from his mind.

_I’m free,_ he tells himself.

“Who says I’d be satisfied?”

Jean blinks in surprise. Nino doesn’t expect it, but perhaps Jean also wasn’t expecting him to suddenly be blunt about it. He watches as Jean’s lips twitch upward in a smile, watches as he laughs a bit. “Who says it isn’t the same for me?” Jean asks, and leans forward to kiss him.

It’s chaste, at first—hesitant and careful. Jean’s lips are dry on Nino’s own, but it feels good because his lips are soft; and suddenly it’s gone. Nino keeps his eyes closed, can’t bring himself to look—but then Jean’s hands are on his face, their chests are snug against each others, and Nino’s back hurts against the door and the doorknob digs uncomfortably into his side but once Jean presses his lips against Nino’s again, every other thought disappears.

As Nino opens his mouth for Jean, he isn’t sure where his hands should go. They twitch to touch him—his face, his waist, the hammering heart he feels against his own, but for now he places them on Jean’s hips, urging him forward shyly. Jean’s hands travel elsewhere: a hand in Nino’s hair, the other gripping Nino’s shoulder; his tongue catches the taste of beer and the faintest taste of chocolate.

The air is thinning. Nino backs away first; he takes his hands from Jean’s hips in favor of his face. It’s endearing, watching Jean lean into his palm—to watch his eyes close in contentment and his lips to curve in a smile, to feel the flush of his skin and the drum of his pulse. He’s _beautiful,_ always has been, even moreso with the pink on his ears and a spark in his eye. Nino leans forward, brushing his lips against the bridge of Jean’s nose; he travels to each temple, inhaling the scent that is just _Jean_ before he brushes his lips against Jean’s.

When laughter escapes his lips, it’s shaky and nervous. Nino doesn’t give Jean time to form a question as he says, “I’ve waited to do that.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

Jean simply hums, giving a nod—perhaps because he, too, understands. “Follow me,” he urges, tugging Nino along by the hand, to which he wants to point out that he’s not being given a choice, but he keeps his mouth shut because it’s a given, by now, that Nino would follow Jean anywhere.

***

At Jean’s unspoken persistence (the narrowed eyes, the huffs of impatience, to finally undressing in front of Nino), Nino undresses.

They’re both naked when Jean takes his hand now; when Jean laces their fingers together and cranes his neck up to kiss Nino. Now, Nino kisses back earnestly, his hesitance forgotten—even as Jean guides himself backwards and Nino forward, even as Jean coaxes him into following him down onto the bed. The slide of limb to limb is somewhat thrilling, making his skin feel electric at Jean’s touch.

The sudden touch of Jean’s hands running up his chest has Nino jerking away and then laughing into the kiss—and soon Jean is laughing as well, their foreheads pressed together and their hair mingling.

“Ticklish?” Jean asks, teasingly.

Nino sorts, skims his fingertips across Jean’s ribs—his smile triumphant as Jean squirms away. “You, too?” he asks, in the same taunting tone.

Jean all but hums as he laces his fingers together on the back of Nino’s neck. He’s staring at Nino—thinking that maybe, if he stares long enough, Nino would lose his sense of seemingly invisibility and never have to hide down alleyways and binoculars again. Jean pulls him down gently, kissing his cheek before burying his face in the crook of Nino’s neck.

It hits him, suddenly—that he’s _always_ had this tenderness in him, towards Nino.

But perhaps that isn’t a surprise.

It’s always been there. He could feel it, at every look and every time his hand touched Nino’s, in the way he felt his eyes soften when Nino would purposefully order a chocolate strawberry parfait and pass the strawberries onto Jean’s plate.

They were little things, but his heart absorbed every one.

Jean smiles, then. He plants kisses on Nino’s shoulder, the curve where shoulder meets neck, behind the shell of his ear and then a bit further up, at Nino’s temple. He knows that he’s hard—the evidence is clear, and the affects of having Nino so close (his smell, the feel of muscles beneath skin, the heat that radiates and the gentleness of each touch) has him on edge. Jean shifts, rolls his hips up, and his heartbeat seems to spike when he feels Nino’s cock, a hard line on his hip; when he hears the sharp inhale beside his ear.

“Jean—“

“Nino?”

At the sound of his name, Nino mimics Jean and buries his face in the crook of Jean’s neck. He bites his lip, shoving off his temptations as he grits out, “You have to be sure.”

Confusion laces Jean’s voice: “Huh?”

“Are you sure?” Nino repeats, leaning back so their eyes meet. He’s sure his pupils are as blown as Jean’s are, and the realization that he’s finally able to _see_ Jean like this is almost too much; touching him is electrifying and inhaling his scent has him drunk.

“I’ve waited for this,” Jean tells him, purposefully jerking his hips upward.

Nino hums shakily, closes his eyes. He doesn’t mean to ask, “for how long?” but it seems his filter is gone.

Jean raises an eyebrow although Nino can’t see it. “Long enough.”

***

“Now,” Jean pants.

“Not done yet.”

Jean furrows his brows, his knuckles white against the sheets. He squirms, tries to move upward but the hand that settles on his hip stop him—Jean groans, and he wants to complain: _my legs are cramping, my dick is hard, there’s enough lube, stop Nino, nownownow—_

He doesn’t, though. Nino’s fingers aren’t intrusive anymore, far from it, but he’s more afraid that he’ll come soon and—“You’ve—grown too fond of this,” leaves Jean’s mouth then, as if to ward off his thoughts; and if Nino would happen to point out that Jean’s hips are moving along with the thrust of Nino’s fingers, Jean in turn would half-heartedly deny his accusations.

“You spoil me,” Nino tells him with a smile—and Jean honestly does. Neither are aware of the amount of time that passed between walking through the door and now; perhaps Nino’s fingers have been busy for an hour, or maybe just twenty minutes? The more he sees, the more surprised gasps and mixed noises of groans and moans he hears, Nino finds himself transfixed—he can’t get enough; but Nino is also itching for more.

Jean sighs, barely suppressing a shiver once Nino finally caves in and takes his fingers away. He watches Nino from half-lidded eyes, allows his legs to be maneuvered easily by Nino’s hands. He hears the crinkle of foil, and it sets his heart racing. There’s an underlying trust between them, an unbreakable link, and it doesn’t leave the moment. As Nino catches Jean’s gaze, Jean’s nodding his head with a weak smile before Nino can even tilt his head and raise a brow.

He can feel Nino shaking. In the back of his mind, Jean wonders if that’s just him, though. Nino’s hands are gentle on his inner thighs, even gentler on his hips. Jean shifts, tries to make it easier, and the laugh he hears calms him more than he thought it would—a huff of laughter escapes Jean as well.

Nino bites the insides of his cheeks as he pushes forward—it’s easy due to his prep, and the sensations seem to fry his brain. It’s hot, and still tight, but the fact that it’s _Jean_ is definitely what makes him so breathless. Jean’s panting beneath him; pink dusts his chest all the way up to the tips of his ears, and suddenly Nino’s fingers itch for his camera.

_“Nino—“_

“Jean?” His voice is as cracked as Jean’s.

“More,” Jean rasps.

“Yes,” Nino simply says.

He’s gentle—slow and a bit hesitant with his thrusts, but the easiness of it seems to please Jean. His shaky breaths reverberate throughout Nino’s head, fogging his mind and making it impossible to focus on anything else but _him._ Nino trails his hands along Jean’s thighs, likes the way the muscle beneath stiffens with overstimulation; he pauses between thrusts, enjoys the way Jean tightens around him, the way Jean extends a hand to fist in Nino’s hair or imprint little crescent moons on his shoulder—but Nino always laughs shakily before continuing.

Nino becomes more daring the more Jean grunts and tightens, the more his heels dig into Nino’s lower back. He pulls out to the tip only to inch back in, because he wants to watch, because he wants to see Jean’s expression become angry and then blissed out—and he barely feels guilty about teasing Jean like this; Jean’s expressions are thrilling, the sounds he makes even moreso.

“Nino,” Jean breathes.

He trails his eyes upward to bright blue ones, but also can’t help but trail his gaze downward to the column of Jean’s neck, to the hickeys on Jean’s chest—following the light trail of hair that leads to his dick. “What is it, Jean?” Nino asks, can barely get the words out. His hand finds Jean’s dick, pumping in time with his thrusts, and it seems to knock Jean’s words out of his throat.

_“Soon—“_ Jean grits out.

Nino ducks his head, murmurs his reply although he knew Jean couldn’t hear him. He twists his wrist, thumbs the head of Jean’s dick in time with a thrust that seems to hit just right—and that’s it for Jean. He spills on Nino’s hand, tightening around him with a gasp and a drawn out groan with one hand on Nino’s shoulder and the other on the arm that’s jerking him off. Nino follows after quickly—the heat and the pressure too much to run from anymore.

He thrusts gingerly, riding out the last bit of his orgasm before he’s deliberating grinding against Jean, and if he weren’t already so spent, he might have gotten hard again at the moan Jean let out, the way he jerked beneath him and said, _“too much, Nino—“_ to which Nino laughs at and says, with no heat, “yes, yes.”

***

Jean wakes up before Nino. He wants to be nice and blame it on the thin slice of light that’s filtering in through the sliver of the curtains, but Jean muses that it might be because of the arm wrapped too tightly around his middle, the heat that their bodies emit making the blanket seem as though on fire.

Carefully, he extracts Nino’s arm, and breathes a sigh of relief when the other’s breathing doesn’t change. Jean shifts, turns to his other side so he can watch Nino. The smile that curves his lips is automatic—there’s a gentleness in Nino’s face that seems unreal, a relaxation that he’s well deserved of.

“Nino,” Jean whispers, just to say his name—just because he can.

_(The memory replays like a record._

_Nino convinced him to skip class with him, “an early lunch,” he said. Jean wasn’t really convinced, no, but he went anyways, because how could he deny Nino when his smile was that wide, when happiness radiated off him in waves?_

_The wind felt nice and although the sun was high, it hadn’t been sweltering hot._

_Jean watched Nino eat his cookies first—it was always like that: sweets before meal. A smile took over Jean’s lips before he could halt it. Nino must have had an itch, or something, because he rubbed his forehead and left behind powdered sugar in his hair._

_He wanted to say something—about the sugar in his hair or the fact that Nino didn’t eat his sandwich—but Nino took the moment to lay down, to fold his arms behind his head to act as a cushion._

_Jean had let him be, and ate his own lunch._

_The bell rang out, signaling the start of lunch._

_He looked over at Nino, fast asleep, his breathing soft and his face tranquil. Jean wasn’t sure what caused him to scoot closer, to reach over and gently wipe away the powdered sugar; and he really isn’t sure what caused him to slowly take Nino’s glasses off._

Handsome, _Jean thinks._ With or without, _supplied the tinier voice in his head._

_It’s then that Jean is overcome with the desire to kiss Nino._

_The thought doesn’t hit him like a truck, no; Jean mused it was always there, like an itch beneath his skin that could never be relieved._

_Jean leaned forward. His face grew red—Nino really was a lot more handsome up close. His eyes travelled toward Nino’s lips: parted just a bit, all the more inviting. Jean wondered if he’d taste the sugar on them._

_The thought itself seemed to set his face aflame._

_Instead, he willed his breathing steady, and pressed his lips to Nino’s cheek.)_

Like then, Jean skims his fingertips along Nino’s hair.

Unlike then, when Jean leans forward, he presses his lips to Nino’s own instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! May ACCA always ruin our lives.


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